


more than the world can contain (in its lonely and ramshackle head)

by tardigradeschool



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-MAG164
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23814262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardigradeschool/pseuds/tardigradeschool
Summary: Martin takes a nap; Jon looks too hard at the sun.-Martin “wakes up” and the sky is still mottled gray. He’s learned not to look too hard; inevitably, there’s something he doesn’t want to see. “Jon,” he says on a yawn. “Ready to go?”There’s no response.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 10
Kudos: 287





	more than the world can contain (in its lonely and ramshackle head)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "john, my beloved" by sufjan stevens. inspired by jon going kind of woozy when he tried to Know how to defeat the fears.

While they don’t technically need to sleep or even rest, sometimes the expanse is so horribly overwhelming and overwhelmingly horrible that Martin makes the executive decision to take a nap. It’s not really napping so much as a weird meditation, and it’s not refreshing, but it does break up the monotony. 

Jon usually doesn’t join him in closing his eyes, although he will occasionally curl around Martin’s back like a bony parenthesis. No, usually Jon uses these moments as an opportunity to vent, as they so euphemistically call it, muttering into one of his many tape recorders. They still cluster in his pack when no one’s looking like the mice that huddled in the back of the cupboard in the safehouse, and Martin sees no point in casting them away when they only come back. 

(He’d bought some of those humane glue mouse traps back at the cottage, and Jon had said something with a smile. Something like, “Oh, of course,” or “This is the least surprising thing you’ve ever done.” Something that made Martin go pink in the cheeks until Jon said, “No, no, it’s a good thing!”. But he doesn’t quite remember.)

Anyway, the “naps” are a good excuse to not listen. He usually puts a hand over his ears, not enough to block out the familiar murmur of Jon’s voice, but enough to obscure the words.

Martin “wakes up” and the sky is still mottled gray. He’s learned not to look too hard; inevitably, there’s something he doesn’t want to see. “Jon,” he says on a yawn. “Ready to go?”

There’s no response. He rolls over, and it would be a lie to say he didn’t feel a twinge of relief that Jon is still there. He’s not so much worried about Jon abandoning him as something taking Jon away; he trusts Jon exactly as much as he  _ doesn’t  _ trust this new world. 

“Jon,” he repeats. Jon’s sitting cross legged, tape recorder held loosely in his hand. His eyes are open, and he has an odd, pinched look on his face. “You alright?” He squints in the direction Jon is looking, adjusts his glasses. More expanse.

Martin sits up. Something is wrong. “Hey,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “You’re scaring me a bit. What are you Looking at?” He shifts over, puts himself in front of Jon.

He was wrong, before, maybe. Jon is still there, but he also seems… not there. Martin has a terrible flash of remembrance; those first excruciating moments of the apocalypse, coming home to Jon and his wide, empty,  _ hungry  _ eyes. He reaches up to touch Jon’s face; the familiar texture of his scarred cheek and scrubby beard is comforting, but not enough to offset the complete lack of response. 

Jon is still breathing, however shallowly, and Martin doesn’t bother checking his pulse. Jon stopped his heart once for a few minutes, just to see if he could, and he can, although he says it makes his fingers and toes tingle. Generally, his bodily functions keep going simply out of habit. 

“Right,” Martin mumbles. He tries shaking Jon, gently and then less gently, without much hope. Still nothing. “Fuck,” Martin says. He mustn’t panic; that’s what they want him to do. Perhaps something’s taken Jon, or tricked him, or -- Martin’s eyes land on the tape recorder, still grasped in Jon’s still hand, and scrambles to pick it up, rewinding as far as he dares.

When he presses play, the first few moments are silent except for Jon’s breathing and his own quiet snores. 

“ _ I don’t see the point in resting, to be honest _ ,” Jon says in the recording, finally, with the sort of bleak, mumbly voice he only uses when he thinks Martin can’t hear. “ _ But… anything to keep morale up, I suppose. _ ” He sighs. Another few moments of silence. “ _ I don’t know why I didn’t check on Basira before. I should have. I suppose I just… didn’t want to know the answer. And I wonder… maybe it would have been a mercy if Daisy had died before all this. At least then she could have died properly _ .”

Another long sigh. “ _ The more power I have to know, it feels like the less personal it is. I-I remember my entire life with perfect clarity, and yet -- sometimes it hardly feels like mine. I don’t think people are supposed to -- to contain so much. But then again… personhood. _ ” Jon huffs a bitter little laugh. “ _ Who knows, these days. Certainly not me. Which is -- ironic, maybe. The things I don’t know. If I need to know it, I don’t _ .”

Martin watches Jon’s blank face. “I think they don’t want me knowing how to stop them,” Jon says in the recording, matter-of-factly. “ _ I don’t think it would hurt to Look otherwise. A part of me thinks maybe if I just look hard enough -- well. Helen did say I was getting more powerful. Not powerful enough to contest the Eye, necessarily, but maybe… _ ” He trails off. “ _ Maybe strong enough to get through? I don’t know _ .” A thoughtful pause. “ _ Maybe I’m not allowed to Look because there really is an answer _ ,” he says. “ _ Maybe --  _ gh _ \-- it really is that simple. Oh, fuck _ .” 

Jon’s eyes are glassy, fixed on something far beyond Martin, as the recording goes fuzzy with the sound of Jon breathing hard through gritted teeth. Martin absolutely hates that he knows what Jon sounds like in pain. “Oh, Jon,” he murmurs, as Jon on the recording says, “ _ It’s, uh, wow, it’s really quite unpleasant, I c-can’t say that I-I-I  _ \--” He stops, then seems to try again. “ _ That I -- uh, I um  _ \--” He drags in another difficult breath. “ _ What was I saying? I… _ ”

Jon’s face doesn’t change. The recording lapses into just harsh breathing, eventually trailing off to something labored but level. Martin takes a deep breath. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Jon, if you can hear me, um. You need to break out of it if you can, okay?” He braces himself, then slaps Jon across the face, not as hard as he can, but not holding much back either. It’s worked once. Jon’s head snaps sideways with the blow, but he doesn’t otherwise move. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says reflexively. “Had to try.” He pets Jon’s hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. “Okay. So not that. Shit.”

For the first time since he woke up, he allows himself to look past their little camp, to the seemingly infinite landscape stretching impossibly far in front of them, broken only by the tower, constantly watching, and the occasional pocket of a tormented town. Well. At least he knows what direction to go.

“I don’t think we should stay here for too long,” he tells Jon’s impassive face. “We should keep moving.” He sits back and grabs his pack, rifling through it. Everything he doesn’t need has to go. He takes out the sleeping bag, the empty water bottles, the extra set of clothes, then puts the pack on his front. 

Jon gained a little weight back at the cottage, but he’s still relatively easy to lift. To get Jon onto his back, he has to crouch down and lean backwards, then tip forward hoist him up. He ends up draping Jon’s arms over his shoulders, adjusting his legs over his hips, and letting his head loll forward against the back of his neck. 

“Right,” he says, feeling at once practical and still a little lost. “I suppose I’ll just -- keep walking. Nudge me if you come back, alright?”

Jon does not nudge him. Martin’s back and calves begin to ache almost immediately, but it’s a manageable pain. The same stasis that keeps him from having to eat and sleep means the ache doesn’t get worse, and he doesn’t get tired. 

He walks… he’s not sure how long. Thus far, the insidious sameness has been manageable, with Jon by his side. If nothing else, Jon’s mood swings stop things from blurring together entirely. Finally, the silence becomes unbearable.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” he tells Jon. “And I hope it wasn’t… for my sake. Just because I was curious. I mean, I won’t feel bad about being curious, but I wasn’t about to ask you to look again, since it hurt.” He lets the words hang in the air. He thinks at least one of the tape recorders has turned on. “Though I suppose you knew I was still curious. That’s so creepy.”

Jon’s legs bump against Martin’s thighs; he hoists him slightly higher on his back. “Not your fault, of course. Not at all. But still. Creepy.”

He walks further. He thinks the tower looks slightly bigger, but when he looks again, it’s actually smaller. His limbs are lead. “I know you’ll come back,” he tells Jon, trying to speak it into existence. “I know you will.” His voice is too thin in his own ears, shamefully unsure. 

Martin doesn’t notice the fog gathering around them until it begins to cloud his view of his own feet. He takes a few steps forward, then stumbles in the first pothole for lord knows how many kilometers, so top heavy that he nearly falls flat.

He can’t really see, so he just sort of stops as the fog gathers cold and quiet around his exposed skin. Jon’s weight is warm on his back, but he can’t stop from shivering, knees locked, leaned forward so Jon won’t fall off. Hesitantly, he steps forward, and it hits him -- that fearsome,  _ painful  _ absence. Jon’s not here. Jon can’t help. He’s all alone, again. 

Shaking, Martin lowers Jon to the ground. It’s actually worse, looking at Jon’s slack face. Martin can see him still breathing, but what the fuck does that mean? What if this is death, for an avatar, just like his coma? Martin’s breath comes out frost. 

“Jon,” he says, barely recognizing his own voice. “Jon, I need you to come back, right now.”

Jon doesn’t so much as twitch. His vacant eyes stare up into the fog. Martin doesn’t even have the energy for the heaving sob that wells up inside him. He pulls Jon closer, off the ground, wraps his arms around him. A poor imitation of a hug. “I can’t lose you,” he says. “I can’t, alright? I refuse.” It steels something inside him, something he didn’t have in the Lonely. “I won’t.” 

Jon is dead weight in his arms. “You brought me back,” Martin says. “When the Lonely took me. You made me not lonely anymore.” He can’t fucking think; it’s as though the fog has gone inside his head as well, shoved cotton into his ears. 

“You’re Seeing,” Martin says, trying to puzzle it out aloud. “You’re Seeing too much. So maybe you just have to -- not see anymore?” He reaches blindly for his pack and grabs the red bandana he sometimes uses to keep hair out of his face. It takes an impossibly long time to untie with his hands trembling, but finally the knot comes loose. He folds it into a line and ties the ends behind Jon’s head -- not too tight, but not loose either. 

An eternity passes. The fog tightens around him, coiling, whispering:  _ your fault your fault your fault.  _ Martin stares down at Jon’s face, Jon’s limp hand clasped in his. “Come on,” he finds himself murmuring through numb lips. “Come  _ on _ .”

Jon’s hand seizes in his, gripping so fiercely that he might break a bone, back arching as he gasps for air. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he sputters, jolting up so fast that he knocks his forehead on Martin’s chin. “Oh, shit. Martin?”

“I’m here!” Martin says hastily, covering his chin. 

Jon keeps clinging to him. “Sorry,” he says. “S-sorry. Oh god, so sorry.”

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Martin says, desperately hoping it’s true. “Can you -- See?”

Jon makes a face like he’s squinting under the bandana. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, it’s -- it’s coming back. But it’s not as -- intense.” He reaches up to feel the blindfold, careful not to jostle it. “That was smart.”

“What happened?” Martin asks. “I mean, I listened to the -- but --”

“Erm,” Jon says. “The Eye didn’t like it.”

“I didn’t know the Eye could like or dislike anything,” Martin says. “Aside from like… fear. Obviously.”

“I mean, cosmically,” Jon says. He still sounds dazed. “Like, you’re not supposed to -- no one’s supposed to see some things.”

“But you did,” Martin says. 

“Sort of,” Jon says. “I don’t know how long it would take to break out normally. How long was I--?”

“No idea,” Martin says. “A day? A fortnight?” His voice breaks a little; Jon grimaces and pushes himself up to hug him tightly. Jon’s hugs are very Jon; a little too tight, a hand gripping the back of Martin’s jacket. It’s perfect. “Please don’t do something like that again. At least not without me there to help.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t on purpose,” Jon says fervently. “I wouldn’t -- not on purpose, Martin.” There’s a slightly desperate edge to his voice; he’s not sure Martin will believe him. Impulsively, Martin brings his hand up and kisses his knuckles. 

“I know,” he says, and means it. “So what are we going to do about--” He looks up and realized abruptly that the fog has cleared. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, slightly rueful. His movements as Martin helps him up are careful, but sure; he really can See through the blindfold. Martin shouldn’t be surprised. Really, he should be surprised it worked at all. “Sorry. Again.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” Martin says. He adjusts the bandana. “Is this staying on?”

Jon hesitates. “Maybe for now,” he says. “It might just be placebo but… it helps.” He squeezes Martin’s hand. His skin is warm. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Martin says. He squeezes Jon’s hand; Jon squeezes back. 

“Do you want to rest?” Jon asks. He looks around, which is a little strange with the bandana covering his eyes. “You carried me all this way?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, though he doesn’t know how long he walked. “But no, let’s, uh. Let’s carry on.” He’s not quite ready to turn away from Jon yet. Just in case. 


End file.
